


Who you really are

by Ruta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Post-The Final Problem, Romance, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:50:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruta/pseuds/Ruta
Summary: He is silent as she looks at him with eyes as dark as night, piercing and proud. There is so much dignity in this wounded woman with a shy smile and the hardening of steel, who has seen her hopes shattered in a rotting sea, whom a chain of adverse events would have to bend a long time ago, to whom he gave the coup de grace. There is so much vulnerability and so much beauty in her.When she lifts her chin and hardens the jaw, the picture is complete. - No one can break me. Not even you, Sherlock. -





	

  
He listens to their confabulations. They are downstairs, but their voices are distinguishable as if they were into the apartment with him. Do they really believe to be discreet? If the years had not trained him in the habit of their absolute lack of cunning, he would find mortifying the idea that both are convinced of having made fun of him.

\- Deplorable behavior. Watson, do you share my opinion? –

The silence of his interlocutor is placid and elusive, like her inscrutable expression. Sherlock throws her one suggestive look, pointing at her the bow. - Your mother would tell me I'm right. –

Rosamund Watson vocalizes her dissent, more focused on the educational toys that are arranged in a circle on the colorful blanket, with the aim of stimulating the visual coordination in addition to her capacity for reflection.

The crisis of the four months, as some stupid pedagogical books has decided to rename Rosamund’s growth jump, has passed without much hindrance. Her needs have changed along with the way she interacts with the environment around her.

She is able to focus her eyes at a greater distance, which allows her to participate more actively. She is learning to sit if supported and this gives her a completely different perspective and sensory experience that mostly involves the third dimension. She is more and more precise in grasping objects at different distances and entered the full oral exploration. She immediately recognize their voices; gurgles amused when she sees a moving object, reacts to stimuli and likes to look around when placed on her seat.

During the last visit, the pediatrician ran the practice investigations: weight, measure of the stature and head circumference. She performed the Ortolani maneuver and controlled sight and hearing.

Sherlock bends his lips into a lopsided smile, putting his violin on the new table. _New_ is an inexact term. The purchase is new, even though it is an antique ( _Rosewood and Moano. Period: Second quarter 800. Origin: France. Banister in mahogany with moves legs. Cylindrical racks and a drawer in the fascia. Open able flap plan. Floral inlays maple_ ), as the rest of the furniture that has monopolized the living room. The paint is still wet, the smell of the glue used to adhere the wallpaper fills the air as the residue of gunpowder and ash.

\- John, don’t you think we should intervene? - The apprehension of Mrs. Hudson is a state of persecution that torments him with a lasting constancy, that in a sense is even admirable.

Sherlock cannot hear John’s replica, but, judging by the reproachful notes that now Mrs. Hudson voice has acquired, it wasn't to be without a certain dose of sarcasm.

John conceals his concern behind an attitude of good-natured and amused detachment from things, but Sherlock knows how to look beyond the masks of fake smiles, the deceptions of the words and he captures John's irony as a fact, as the crude expression of what he really thinks.

\- But he's so sad! - She emphasizes, and he can imagine the nervous movement of the rough hands that accompanied the dictum. - Why he has to be so sad? -

A whisper, this time, a specific name is articulated carefully. It is immediately followed by the scrape of violin strings that produce a grating sound. The sound of a gasp convinces him of the validity of his conclusions.

In the silence that follows, her name is shattered between the walls of his skull, flung with merciless ferocity. The name, needless to say, is that of the woman whose heart he has broken. The woman who saved his life. The name is that of Molly Hooper.

* * *

\- You're avoiding each other. Don’t try to deny it. It's plainly obvious. –

It wasn't his intention to do anything like that. Deny would serve only to corroborate the opposite view, it would be a childish and counterproductive reaction. Silence is the most effective weapon. _The best defense is one that doesn't leave out where to attack_.

\- She doesn’t blame you. - John clears his throat, looking at him openly. He doesn’t pronounce her name and why he should? About whom he can refer if not her? _She_ , who occupies every damn thought, like an insidious worm. _She_ , who fills every empty space with color, noise, heat. _She_ , who burns each breath, who is a flesh-wound, who is the slow and progressive deterioration of every logic.

\- How can you know it? - Sherlock brushes a finger on the mantelpiece. A quick glance at the mirror to observe John’s reflection and his mind is crossed by a number of unwanted deductions. They are like cars of a train traveling on a track at top speed, hitting him frontally.

 _Obviously_. An inner sigh. - You talked to her. - A pause punctuated by the thrill of the eyelashes, the closing and reopening of the eyelids. Does he really want to know the answer? - What did she say? - _Yes,_ yes he wants. He wants it desperately.

\- She understood. - John gave him the ghost of a smile devoid of any satisfaction. - She forgave you. –

\- Of course she did, - he replies sullenly, rubbing his forehead. He doesn’t know what he is feeling, whether it is relief or irritation the incandescent mass that soaks his lungs. Maybe it's both.

John raises his eyebrows. - Would you have preferred the opposite? – The unhappy smile that curves his lips is genuine. - In this you are more alike than you think. Everything would be easier, right? Being able to hate her. - He studies his hands, _the wedding ring_ , not daring to touch it. - She must have tried to do the same for years. The fact is that when you love someone, you cannot stop it. It doesn’t work like that. Giving up your heart means that at times you have to suffer. Because no matter how many other emotions you feel, how much pain it causes to you, love always prevails. You cannot pause or suspend it just because it makes you angry. –

\- I know. I'm starting to figure it out. -

_Once you've opened your heart, you cannot close it again._

Sherlock banishes the thought with a determined gesture of the hand. - Why do you care? -

\- Because you're my best friend and I want you to be happy. Because that day, on Sherrinford, while you wrecked the coffin, I saw something. I saw a possibility. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, - he says dispassionately. - You were on that side, you have been there from that day. We had to be soldiers, it was necessary to survive, but now you don't have to be so. Today you can be a man, you can have a heart. You don’t have to remain a Cyberman. -

\- Sorry, a _what_? -

\- A Cyberman. You know, - John accompanies The words with a slight nod, - like a human turned into a heartless robot. From Doctor Who, only the most popular British television series of all time. -

The chatter becomes a buzz, is lost in the background while he withdraws into the silent shadows of his mind. 

 _Molly Hooper_. A recurring thought from which he can no longer be free. _Molly Hooper._ The world is in a blackout. He doesn’t know how many minutes have elapsed. When he opens his eyes, Sherlock speaks softly, with deliberate slowness. - I thought I was being kind, by acting in the way I acted. I thought I was protecting her. -

John is still there. He leans forward in his chair (an almost identical reproduction of the previous one, if not for the color, half-shade darker), plants his elbows on his knees, with a frown declaring all the lack of understanding that clouds his eyes. - Protect her from what? -

Sherlock draws a vibrant breath. - From the man I am. -

\- You are no longer that man. The guilt you feel, the devastation... the man you were, he would never have allowed himself to feel them. You no longer need to keep the distances. -

\- What if I hurt her? Ruin our friendship beyond repair? -

_The very idea is..._

\- Then you'll face it together. -

 _Atrocious_.

\- The probability and statistics are at my disadvantage. In percentage terms, the cases of –

\- Don’t do it. - John interrupts him. – Don’t precluding yourself a chance to be happy just for fear of what might happen. You're a chemist, every decision of yours is based on precise calculations, but don’t forget that you are also a musician. Think of the feelings as notes. You cannot create a concert using a single note, right? The harmony is born in mixing them together, the symphony is in the opposition. You have a choice. Try to get the right one. -  

* * *

She is there. His body has processed her presence even before the mind, absorbed by the musical performance, would record the information.

How? _Dilated pupils, rapid heartbeat, cold sweats_.

Look what you did to yourself, a remote female voice sing-song.

\- Molly. - Pronounce her name and see her tremble at the sound of his voice. He shouldn’t feel the lack of that reaction, and yet it is what he feels.

Molly doesn’t smile. (Why should she? He doesn’t deserve her smiles.) She makes a brief, impersonal greeting. - I waited for you to finish in order to not interrupt you. I didn’t want to bother you. -

\- You are never a bother, - he says honestly. Because this is the truth and she must _know_ , she must _understand_. She has earned this right.

\- That's very kind of you to say. - A polite answer, formal. She leaves no room for different interpretations. -  It was beautiful. The piece that you were playing, I mean. -

A compliment, yet another undeserved.

\- I hope to finish it in time. -

Molly curls her lips, like every time something intrigues or capture her interest. - In time for what? -

\- For my next visit to Eurus. -

Oh. The blast is silent, but it happens with results no less distressing to observe.

Molly's shoulders crumple and the light in her eyes fades, the suffused and smooth contours of her face dwindle into something sharp, severe. He just reminded her why she is there, her mission.

\- I came here because we need to talk. John told me everything. About your sister and about Redbeard. - She clasps her hands in front of her in an attitude of defense and defiance. - I would have preferred to know it from you, hear the story directly from you. –

Sherlock feels an immediate blur of disgust at himself and the desire to tear something apart (and, no less excruciating, to touch her and to lose a bit of that despair into something pleasant, but no less harrowing).

\- I wanted to tell you, - he is quick to reply, but without moving a step toward her. - It was my intention to do so. –

\- Then why didn’t you come? - She asks, implacable as justice, inexorable as revenge.

Repulsion increases, now gripping the pit of stomach, pounding in his veins as if it were a toxic substance. - I must apologize to you. -

\- Yes, you should, - she says, - but I don’t want you to. It wasn’t your fault. -

\- I'm sorry, - he repeats again. He will never cease to repeat it if it will help to get things back to normal. The shame on his face has to be obvious.

Molly burst into a bitter laugh. It’s an unpleasant sound. - Do you feel guilty because you think you have broken my heart? - By now, she has wringed her fingers so hard that he fears to hear at any moment the crack of when they will break. - Yes, you did, but it wasn’t the first time. Do you think it takes so little to break me? A broken heart? -

He is silent as she looks at him with eyes as dark as night, piercing and proud. There is so much dignity in this wounded woman with a shy smile and the hardening of steel, who has seen her hopes shattered in a rotting sea, whom a chain of adverse events would have to bend a long time ago, to whom he gave the coup de grace. There is so much vulnerability and so much beauty in her.

When she lifts her chin and hardens the jaw, the picture is complete. - No one can break me. Not even you, Sherlock. -

His heart emits a discordant note.

\- In the end I am a coward, - Molly admits quietly, the turmoil in the back of her eyes is a detail that challenges the illusion of her apparent calm. - I thought that if I had never admitted it aloud, even to myself, then I would have avoided... - she hesitates, pressing her lips into a thin line that looks like a scar. - The pain of knowing that you wouldn’t have never reciprocate me. That you cannot, you will never love me. I didn’t want to make the pain real. -

\- But it was. -

\- Of course it is! - The vehemence of her response surprised her first. Molly runs a hand over her face, as if to temper her reaction, the intensity of her emotions. - I'm sorry. I didn’t come here with the intention to fight. -

The wave of horror is so powerful that finally shakes him from the slumber. _Why is she apologizing?_

\- Don’t. You don't have to apologize. If there is someone who has to it's me. - He knows that he is speaking in bursts, that his words sound crossed, too fast and impetuous for her to fully seize its meaning. - I'm sorry, Molly, sincerely. If there was another way, another solution... –

 - I know, Sherlock. - The sadness on her face is a punch in the chest. Why doesn’t she scream? Why doesn’t she attack him? Why she has to be so generous? _Why_?

 - I don’t blame you. But I need time to work off this situation, to forget. –

\- How much time? - He asks quickly, again too quickly. - What do you need? –

\- I need a bit of time away from you. - She avoids eye contact.

\- I see. - _Really? Really, do you understand? Oh, Sherlock, you liar_.

\- Molly. - It is the strength of desperation that push him to talk. - Do you think you'll ever forgive me? –

The smile she gives him is a wasted miniature. - There's nothing to forgive. -

There is everything to forgive instead. From the very beginning.

\- It wasn’t as I had imagined it, you know? - she says airily, as if they were talking of frivolous things like the weather.

\- What? - He forces himself to ask.

\- Confess what I feel for you. It wasn’t as I had imagined it, but it makes sense, right? In what other context it would have happened? -

\- Molly, please, forgive me. - This time his voice has an urgent nuance, pressing.

\- Only if you will do the same. -

What the hell is she talking about?

\- After John told me what had happened, I thought about it and I came to a conclusion. I am really better than her? I don’t think so. Actually it was me, Sherlock, not her. - Molly's eyes are shiny as mirrors, clouded by tears. She appears pale and guilty and he has to suppress the inconvenient desire to kiss her, must force himself to close his hands into fists to avoid stretch them toward her. - _I_ forced you to say those words, even though I knew they were not true, not for you, even though I knew that in that way I would hurt you. I was angry and I felt so humiliated and for a moment I succumbed to anger, I just wanted that for once you felt what I felt. I want you to understand what it feels like to stand on the other side of the river. You did it to save my life, it was unfair and cruel, but yours was an impossible choice. What I did was worse. I've been petty and selfish and - she covers her mouth with the palm of the hand, overwhelmed.

Silly, _silly_ woman! How can she even think...

\- There's only one thing... Why twice? Why did you have to say precisely twice? –

Without give him the opportunity to respond, she straightens her shoulders in a resolute gesture. - Forget it. It doesn’t really matter, no? - Another laugh, bitter as gall, cold as the snow that fell two winters before, walking away from her, from what she represented. (So many alternatives, each attractive and dangerous and frightening in wonderful ways.)

Those words. Always those words. Damn, hate words. _I do not count._

When he recovers from the shock, he moves as quickly as he can. _Before it's too late. Grab the opportunity. Be the man you chose to be._ His arm blocking the passage, standing between her and the door. Their eyes meet, his are feverish. He speaks in a clear manner, one impossible to misunderstand. - The second time was for you. –

\- What? - For a moment, the surprise undermines all the traces of bitterness in her.

\- The first was for Eurus, to give her the impression that she was winning. I had to let her believe she had manipulated me, that she had the situation in hand. -

\- Sherlock, what are you saying? I... - She is clearly confused and dazed. If the prospect were not so daunting, he would admit that she looks almost terrified by his confession. - _What are you saying?_ -

\- I didn’t do to convince you. At first that was why, of course, but at a few seconds left in the countdown, when I thought it was all over - _that I lost you_ \- I couldn’t waste the only chance to tell you, not if it was the last. -

Molly takes a step back, eyes wide. - You cannot be serious. You cannot love me. Why should you? -

\- Why shouldn’t I, Molly? - He asks. He tries to use the right amount of sweetness and sincerity. _I'm not lying. Please._ Please, _believe me._ \- Why not you? -

\- Because I'm just... just _me_. What you're supposed to love? - 

What is it that he should not love?

\- Your kindness, your loyalty, your nobility, your capacity for forgiveness, your bad sense of humor, your color blindness when it comes to match clothing, your perceptive and sensitive mind. –

\- Sherlock, no one forces you to... - Molly shakes her head vigorously. - This is a huge mistake. –

\- Can you not see? - He puts his hands on her shoulders, lowering his face at the same height of hers, forcing her to understand. She must understand. - Look at me, Molly. You've always been able to do it, haven’t you? You've always been able to notice aspects of me that no one else could see. You saw my loneliness and tried to heal it. –

 _[- He cannot afford to lose another one. He cannot afford to lose_ you _. - The end of John’s story, the strange look he had addressed to her, full of unspoken words, of implied meanings. And then another fragment: - You cannot even imagine in what state he was. He was devastated, terrified._ -]

\- Are you telling the truth? –

Sherlock looks at her as he did in two other occasions, the night before he died for the whole world and the day spent together in solving cases. With tenderness, affection, melancholy. With that look she knows that John is right, that Sherlock is telling the truth (or at least, what he believes to be true).

Here it is, the needle's eye of her most intimate concerns. Molly takes a deep breath. The heart seems too small to hold all those emotions. How did John called it? Emotional context. It is simply too much to accept.

Gently but firmly, she moves away, removing herselves from Sherlock's hold, from his cumbersome presence. - Even if it’s true, I cannot. Not like this. Not now. I need space. - God, it sounds like a joke stolen from a romantic comedy of very poor quality. - I have to go. -

She runs off and doesn’t turn back even once, not even to throw the smallest glance behind her. She cannot watch a second more the desolation that is printed on his face, the despair and anguish. Especially because she knows that would be like looking in the mirror.   

* * *

 - Sherlock, why Molly doesn’t come here anymore? –

 Sherlock gives his back to the window. If anyone can understand, he decides, this is Mrs. Hudosn.

\- I hurt her. I told her the truth but she didn’t believe me. She is convinced that I was lying. –

\- And? - She asks imperiously, arms crossed over herchest. - Did you? –

He rolls his eyes, irritated by the suggestion. There was a time in which it would be possible, but that time has gone in the contamination of feelings that corrupt everything.

\- Of course not! What would be the point of that? –

 - Oh, dear, you really are a stupid man. Molly is testing your honesty, your devotion and who can blame her? - Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, eyes hardening. - Do you want to convince her? You're not working hard enough. What do you think of achieve while you stagnate in the chair? Invite her to the party for the end of the renovations work. What is the worst thing that can happen? -

\- She might say no, - he nearly growls in frustration.

\- But she could also say yes, - she perseveres. - You should at least have a try! Try is always a better choice. -

\- Compared to what? -

Her expression is stoic and conscious, typical of those who draw strength from the experience. - Regret. - 

* * *

 

You were wrong.

SH

 

About what?

MH

 

You know about what.

SH

 

No, I REALLY don’t know. Tell me.

MH

 

You're the best part of my life.

SH

 

That is John.

MH

 

John is family. It’s normal that he is. Ups and downs included.

SH

 

You're different. You always have been. You are the best part, the kind one, the sentimental, the romantic one.

SH

 

Baker Street door is always open. Whenever and if you want.

SH

 

Friday afternoon. Inauguration of the 221B. Will you come?

SH

 

The answer is yes.

MH

 

You know where to find me.

SH

 


End file.
